Engures Ezers
It started with a late night conversation, continued via email and finally we were catching a bus with moments to spare. It would take us 80km up the coast to a small town which offered a Hedgehog museum, a Lutheran Church and a lighthouse.
As we hit the coast the Gulf of Riga could be seen sporadically between trees and buildings, giving tantalizing glimpses of its languid ripple. Two hours after boarding we arrived after a sleepy journey of hypnotic woodland whizzing past and acerbic comments on the various amusing items of graffiti sprayed onto passing bus stops.
The bus dropped us in the heart of the village. No one was around apart from two young guys waiting for next service, they looked bored and lethargic. Despite the closeness of the sea there was no salty tinge to the air, it felt fresh and Mediterranean – a clear, crisp heat that dried the skin. Walking out of town took us but a few minutes, past the temptation of a roadside cafe and the cup of coffee we had been longing for on the journey.
Our destination for the first part of the walk was a large lagoon separated from the sea by a few kilometres, between the sea and this eutrophic lake was a linking canal which we followed whilst avoiding darting dragonflies. Ants nests projected out of the grassy bank-sides, their denizens busily scurrying to and fro in the shaded sides of these mounds. We stirred up trouble with sticks, digging into the nest and enraging their inhabitants to the point where you could hear the hiss of their legs and smell formic acid as they rushed to the defence of their realm.
The river met the lake in a wetland populated by reeds which stretched almost as far as the eye could see; every now and then there came a glint of sunlight off a large body of water away to the East, merely hinting at what was out there. Narrow channels were cut through the thick reed beds, the water still, mirroring the sky, disturbed only by the movements of tiny fish cavorting in the sun-warmed upper layers.
There was no way of moving further ahead, so we turned to follow the bank of the lake, keeping the wide expanse of openness always to our right whilst meandering through marshy ground dense with moss, reeds, fallen trees and patches of black sticky mud. Deer tracks appeared and disappeared like the tyre worn path we were trying to follow. At times we had to push our way through tree branches, avoiding huge spider webs and the constant irritation of dive-bombing mosquitoes.
In an area of slender, densely packed pines I glanced upwards to see a hawk glide across, wings folded back, it hung for a second in silhouette, a brief vision of an apex predator hunting, dashing through tightly knit branches. So momentary was it that I have only the briefest recollection of its occurrence, by the time I had alerted my friend it had gone, dashing away in ignorance of our searching gazes. At its passing there was no bird song, just the quiver of brushing leaves in the breeze.
Late in the afternoon we eventually stopped for food, resting in a pool of sunlight on an area of thick moss that cushioned our bodies. We ate black bread smeared with humus. Mosquitoes hovered ominously, occasionally daring a foray to a naked area of skin. The heavenly glow of the sun was still strong, a light breeze drifted through the pines dispelling the heat.
There was no longer a path. Ridges of earth guided us short distances in the correct direction before we had to wade through heather to the next high ground. We pushed through the branches of fallen trees, spotted spiders eating dragonflies with greedy delight and strode noisily through flora of the forest floor. At some point another track opened up in front of us, the ruts left by wheels clearly visible, this we followed until the close knit foliage dissipated, the ground turned to grass and the air became clear and less heavy. A breeze ruffled the strands of webs that clung to our clothes. Ahead some distance the roof of a house could be seen, our pathway leading directly to it. Its reddish colouration brought to mind a gingerbread cottage, except this was clearly the summer home of a wealthy family.
Following our intended route took us to a well used pathway which led to the actual shore of the lake with the house behind us. It was our first glimpse of this body of water after five hours of walking, despite knowing that it was there, somewhere. The water was clear and peaty, submerged lily beds could be seen as pond skaters dimpled the surface, the tips of their legs creating a slight hollow in the surface tension. I spotted a shoal of small fish deep in the weed, darting in and out of the green fronds. Further out towards the reeds a patch of bubbles sprung up, the water frothed as gases were released from underneath the layers of collected silt – no doubt by a group of feeding bream which were common in this water. Apart from these minor effects everything seemed so still. We stood on the bank looking towards the blinding sun that hung directly over the glistening water.
“Shall we go for a swim?” she enquired.
I paused and reflected, washing off the dirt of the woods seemed like a good idea, but the water was cold and for me, uninviting. The peat stained it brown and whilst clear and cool something put me off bathing in it and it was getting late, so we pressed on.
Shortly after leaving the lake we stumbled across a road, a real road of concrete, not just a dirt track etched into the mud and kept clear by constant use. It led us to another house, set further back in the woods. A car was parked outside and the road disappeared towards a tangled mass of branches. Just visible was the continuation of the path we were previously on, so we pressed ahead, logically assuming that this was the right way to go.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a fence surrounding a large dog kennel, not thinking anything of it until my companion said “There’s a dog kennel there”. Suddenly a snarling, ravenous German Shepherd came howling out from behind the kennel. For a moment I stood watching the chain unfurl behind it thinking ‘That chain isn’t long enough to reach me’. My eyes followed the metal links from the angry creature’s collar, across the ground and then up to loop in the trees. I ran with the dog hot on my heels, I turned my head to gaze right down into its bared, slathering maw. I felt something hit the back of my boot, then I was away, I couldn’t feel it’s presence behind me anymore. The animal sent up a cacophony of roaring barks as we scampered up the road to safety.
Further up the road, away from the houses was a sign portraying a bloody mouthed Doberman, its intention was clear. We had definitely followed the wrong path, so we turned off the road, back to the woodland walking. Another rutted jeep track cutting into the clay surface gave us a line to follow until we reached a sand covered track that led north towards the sea. As this was our destination for the evening our feet followed it, each footstep cutting deeply into the soft sediment making progress slow. Our efforts were rewarded when, at the top of a steep incline, the main road could be seen; the other side was a final barrier of trees before the flat expanse of the Gulf of Riga.
No traffic halted our efforts to cross this main artery to Riga, you could feel the heat emanating from the road surface; the air shimmered and danced for a few centimetres above it. Another sand covered track on the other side led us to the sea. As we arrived at the beach a shield of reeds stretching in front of us kept our presence unknown to half a dozen herons who strutted in the surf across boulders and piles of seaweed. A stork stood on a large rock, head tucked into its chest dozing to the gentle sound of the waves going schss schss schss. We quietly took photos before attempting to surreptitiously slip along the beach without disturbing them. Our efforts were to no avail, ever wary and despite our best attempts to be unobtrusive they spread their great wings and departed for a quieter area.
That evening we camped amongst the pines and spruces which populated a strip of wooded land running along the beach. Once it was dunes, then reeds took hold binding the sand and allowing the growth of heather, then saplings. Slowly a different ecology took hold in a succession from wind whipped sand tops to low density bosk.
Near the tent lay shattered trees in the moss, shards of desiccated branches rising from the soft beds like grey bones, each broken section of the trunk resembling giant vertebrae, the skeletons of trees distraught and splintered in mossy graves.
More herons trod the foreshore here, but our presence moved them further down the coast where they gathered in pools hunting small fish and shrimp. Looking North and then South, not another soul could be seen; this place felt untouched apart from the sea delivered detritus of humanity that littered the tide line.
The sky darkened and we dug a hole in the sand in a sheltered spot for a small fire. There were two constants in the night air: the sound of low waves lapping at the beach and the wind in the tree tops hissing through leaves. Out fires hiss and crackle joined these two sounds as we settled on a blanket, ate cake and black bread whilst talking of the Beat poets, other travels and the days walk following the curving banks of an ancient sea lagoon. I lay with my head on her thigh and she with her head on mine. Embers crackled and pine cones popped in the heat. Seagulls could be heard far off, their caw-caws echoing down the beach.
Sunset blossomed in the West just before midnight; not the vivid nuclear sunsets of home with its polluted sky lines, but a gentle reddening misted by the scant clouds that were being wafted in by the sea breeze. In the East another more subtle glow announced the sun of tomorrow.
Our fire dwindled in the early hours, I covered it in sand and we retreated to our tent which was pitched far from prying eyes on a bed of thick moss that was more comfortable than any mattress.
We slept like we had known each other years: tangled limbs, comfortable with each other’s bodies. Her breath brushed my face as she exhaled deeply in her slumber. The tent creaked as the wind pushed against the canvass, the trees sighed wearily rustling their nocturne. Unconsciously we moved together from one comfortable position to another.
The night’s whispered sounds reflected through the woodland. It never got truly dark, that darkness that can only really be felt far from civilisation never encompassed us. We slept through day break. Thick white clouds obscured the sun. At noon we unzipped the entrance and lay with our heads out staring up at the sky, watching the trees sway in unison, the cotton ball clouds race past and various flocks of birds make their way to feeding grounds. Occasionally we dozed away into day-lit dream worlds, our fingers entwined.
Later, after washing in the sea we walked the tide-line, feet weaving a ragged trail within that liminal zone. Bones, feathers, broken shells, tufts of rope, fresh wild boar tracks and a skull of an unknown creature, these things we stopped and admired. There was no chatter like the day before, a quietness had descended, a natural intimacy that didn’t require speech.
Further along the coast reeds started to grow out of the dunes, slowly starting the process of reclamation, soon, in a few years, it would join with the woodland nearby unless the sea-levels rose first and devoured the land.
A rowing boat seemingly abandoned mirrored the horizon line with its mooring rope laid behind it attached to an anchor buried deep in the sea soaked sand. It was here that we ran out of beach, a rivers mouth with a deep channel was ahead. Home to a number of herons I did not want to disturb them nor could we cross without soaking all of our gear. A new route was forged through the reeds and into the woodlands where a dirt track led us to the main road and eventually a bus stop.
This was early the end of this trip, we road walked into the nearest village wondering aloud whether we could find a coffee. To our left the beach gradually came into view sitting behind the local houses. A small stall appeared around a bend in the road, it sold smoked bream caught from the nearby lake. A patient lady waited for customers. We examined the goods on display, as soon as she heard our English she swapped to Russian from Latvian. We politely declined the various smoked fish she offered and made our way towards the next bus stop and our journey back to Riga.